Category Archives: being free

Why KKK Folks Choose to Wear Dunce Caps


It’s always been something of a mystery why any group would voluntarily
pick dunce caps as part of their official uniform. But the KKK chose
long ago to include that traditional insignia of stupidity as emblematic of
their beliefs and world view.

Now, after the last few days, it’s obvious why they made that choice. They revere ignorance, stupidity and brainless violence.  They celebrate it.  They obviously want to present themselves to the world as dummies and dunces because they are proud of it.

Nothing says “duh, I’m an idiot” like voluntarily wearing dunce caps–in public no less.  It sends a message all right–that is, that they like being dumb and ignorant. They don’t just approve it, they actually applaud it.  They work at it.

Here in America I suspect that under normal circumstances the KKK has
nothing to do with most of our lives.  Their kind of living isn’t even on our
collective radar screen.  Or at least it wasn’t until the last few days.

That’s changed.  They have pushed their unwanted, ugly ways into our
lives.

When the KKK’s demented knuckledraggers say they “will take back our country” what they really mean is that they want to take our country, and the values “we the rabble” hold dear, away from us.

Too bad.  It’s not “their” country to take.  It belongs to all of us, whether they like it or not.

F–k them!  They can’t have what belongs to all of us.  Maybe we’re the ones who should “take back our country” from the altRight, the nazis and the KKK.   Maybe they need to find someplace else to practice their backwards ways.  Maybe we should confine them somewhere so they can’t continue disrupting and infecting our public life.

I hear Alcatraz is empty, and difficult to escape.

There ya go KKK boys and girls. I’ve found the perfect spot for you.

No, no, don’t thank me.  Glad to be of help.  Now, please–leave!

And BTW, KKK, Jesus does NOT love you.

What would Jesus say?  “Crush them like the icky bugs they are..”

 

Prediction–Snooty’s Death Will Soon Be a Conspiracy Theory


Here in Florida we are mourning the untimely death of Snooty, an unfortunate manatee who was born and kept in captivity for 69 years.  Sixty Nine Years!  Manatees in the wild swim thousands of miles in their lifetimes. They zip in and out of the ocean and lurk in warmer canals during winter months. They eat.  A lot!  But they don’t stay in one tiny spot of their own free will.   Snooty, alas, was a prisoner.

Everybody loved Snooty.  Just last week the museum in Bradenton where Snooty lived had a huge 69th birthday party for him.  Nobody ever asked how Snooty liked being confined to a small tank for all those long decades, instead of swimming free visiting springs and rivers and beaches and just roaming around eating seagrass.

Everybody just assumed that, since everybody loved Snooty, that somehow meant Snooty loved his life in confinement.  I doubt it.

Snooty drowned a day or two after the aforementioned 69th birthday party last week.  A grate over a tunnel leading to plumbing equipment somehow came loose. Snooty, probably trying to escape, got stuck in the tunnel and drowned.

It should be only a day or two before people start asking how a bolted grate came to be open.  Because this is South Florida, it shouldn’t be long after that until someone proposes that Snooty was the victim of a nefarious plot. That he was, in fact, murdered. Possibly he was lured into that tunnel with some ripe lettuce. The spectre of domestic terrorism will no doubt be run up the flagpole by a shameless media.

What people really should be talking about is the morality of keeping such a large, seafaring animal in a little concrete tank for decades.   So far all the news is about Snooty’s longevity in his aquatic prison.

That’s what shouldn’t happen again.

We still are all sad about Snooty.  One way or the other.

Chainsaw Phil


Once upon a time I lived on islands. Not always the same one, but always
islands. The first time I moved to one it was in the Caribbean and it was
supposed to be for a couple of months. I didn’t come back to the continent
for 12 years. And even then I lived on barrier islands. For awhile I lived on
two islands at once–one in the Caribbean the other a Florida barrier
island–and commuted.  On Fridays I’d walk to the dock, take a ferry to St.
Thomas, a surrey-bus to the seaplane terminal, then the Goose–a
seaplane–to St. Croix, then a surrey bus to Christiansted or Frederiksted, do
my work and return home the same way.

I met a lot of interesting people.

One of them was Chainsaw Phil–or, as people called him more or less
affectionately, Chainsaw–the most consistently pessimistic, skeptical, cranky person I ever met.

BTW, on this particular island there were three things one was never supposed to ask.  “Where are you from, what’s your last name, what do you do for a living?”

Chainsaw just kind of appeared on the Caribbean island at some point,
having migrated from the Pacific Northwest where he’d been a lumberjack.

He was, and probably still is, the second most profane human being I have
ever met. Because of his profession, and the fact that much of the bush to
be cleared was cassia, which is full of thorns, Chainsaw was always
scratched, cut, bleeding, and with a patchwork of other occupational wounds in
various states of healing/scabbing. His T-shirts suffered the same fate and were invariably torn in several places.

Chainsaw, however had hidden depths. Brilliant, literate, and with a
massive database of general liberal arts information, Chainsaw was quite a
conversationalist. He could riff on various obscure philosophers, contemporary fiction, history, you name it. We had a number of fascinating chats over the years.

I only ever saw him happy once. After a huge hurricane had pretty much
squashed the island, all the locals had to pitch in to clear the roads and get
the power back on. None of the airports were open so each island was pretty much on its own.

I came around a corner and there was Chainsaw, dangling above the debris strewn roadway from one of the few trees still standing, by one arm, the other swinging along with the chainsaw like a damn bullwhip, cutting the hanging branches dangling from also-dangling wires and trees, just a-whoopin’ and hollerin’ like a cowboy gettin’ some little dogies along on the dusty trail.  He sounded like Slim Pickens in the final scene of “Dr. Strangelove” (one of the greatest films ever made).

Chainsaw had this huge grin on his face.  I’d never seen him smile–normally even when he laughed he frowned.  I wasn’t even aware he could smile

*BTW for Goose flights they would have to take passenger weights to determine if the lumbering aircraft could safely get airborne and land.  Seems as though I recall that here’s an old VI Daily News photo somewhere of the Lt. Gov. or Gov. or head of the legislature, something political…wading in the shallows having been forced to abandon a Goose plane for reasons I can’t recall.  The seaplanes had a reputation for being rickety but there were a limited number of ways to get to St. Croix from St. Thomas, and the Goose was the quickest one.